Author's Notes: And now for a bit of a change of pace. Because Lavender may be different, but she's not that different. Writing for her is actually a lot of fun.

To the guest (N J Dryad) who reviewed every single chapter individually: Thank you for all your kind words, and I enjoyed seeing how your thoughts on what was going on changed as you kept reading. It was honestly rather fascinating. It's a shame that, as a guest, I can't reply to all of the things you've said, but know that the compliments are appreciated – particularly the one on Ch12; believe me, I feel the full force of that – and that I've taken on board the other things you've said.

Chapter 20 isn't finished yet because I suck. Chapter 14 will still be posted on 17th October, but after that I may decide to revise the update schedule to every three weeks, at least until after Christmas. We'll see.

13. Something Short of Innocent

Hermione looked on in despair as Lavender laid yet another set of dress robes on the bed in front of her. It seemed that her influence had only gone so far; this Lavender might be far more sensible and studious than the one in Hermione's memories, but she was still just as fashion-obsessed. And she had apparently managed to influence the Hermione of this world, as well; a thorough search of her wardrobe had revealed that she actually owned shoes – proper girl shoes, not the sensible pumps or boots that were all she usually wore. It was odd, this realisation that perhaps she didn't even know herself all that well.

The dress robes were all Lavender's, though. Perhaps the shoes she'd found had been this Hermione's small concession to her best friend's tastes. Lavender had exclaimed over them – especially a pair that even Hermione had to admit were nice, and which now she simply had to wear – but had despaired rather loudly at most of the rest of her wardrobe. Which of course now meant that Lavender needed to take Hermione in hand and dress her properly. There would be Press photographers at the Wand Weighing, and so it was very important that the Hogwarts Champion look as good as she possibly could for the ceremony. Or, at least, that was what Lavender had said.

"I think you just want an excuse to fuss over me and dress me up like a doll," Hermione grumbled.

"Guilty as charged," Lavender said, laughing. "Now pick a set of robes so I can get on with your cosmetic charms. You don't think that glamorous Russian girl is going to turn up looking drab and insignificant, do you? Of course she won't! So we'll just have to make sure you look better than she does."

Hermione frowned. "Don't I have to wear my school uniform for this?"

"Oh, do you?" Lavender paused in the middle of extracting a tiny potion bottle from her makeup bag and looked over at the beautiful robes on the bed. None of them fitted the uniform guidelines, of course, and Hermione almost had a chance to feel relieved before Lavender's eyes lit up and an unusually devious expression settled on her face. There was no way that that could bode well. "I do have some rather nice black robes that ought to fit you really nicely with a couple of resizing charms. Let's just have a look..."

Lavender put her bag aside and threw her wardrobe open once more, pushing an assortment of coloured robes out of the way in her quest to reach the perfect outfit. She disappeared among the fabrics for nearly half a minute, but then emerged with a set of black dress robes and a triumphant grin. "Okay, these are just what you need," she said, holding them out to Hermione. "Put them on and you'll see what I mean."

Having no alternative, Hermione took the robes, immediately noting that the material was softer and finer than the fabric of her uniform. These were black robes with no patterns or adornments that would have violated the school dress code, but they were still absolutely nothing like the robes she wore every day. The differences persisted when she put them on; her uniform robes had never looked even remotely flattering, but these were a very different matter. Lavender hadn't even resized them to fit her yet, and they already accentuated her figure in a way that made her blush – though she did wonder what Draco would think when he saw her.

"So? Do you like them?" Lavender was smirking, Hermione could tell from her voice.

"They're very nice," she said, simply, trying not to show her embarrassment. "I... well, they fit better than I'd expected."

"Hey, our figures aren't that different!" Lavender protested, laughing. "But you'll definitely look better once I cast a couple of spells." She dug her wand out from underneath a daring set of purple robes that she'd claimed would be perfect for the Yule Ball. "There! Now we'll fix these up." A couple of mostly inaudible spells later, the beautiful black robes were even more form-fitting, and Hermione just stared at her reflection, almost certain that this had to be against the school rules somehow. "Okay, that's done! Aren't they just perfect?" Lavender obviously did not share her misgivings.

"I'm... they're... yes. They're wonderful." Hermione couldn't help but smile, even if she was rather worried about what message she was sending by wearing such fitted robes. "Are you sure they're allowed, though?"

"You think it should be illegal to look that good?" Lavender grinned at her scandalised expression. "But seriously, yes, you're fine. I checked and double-checked the school dress code before I forked out the money to buy these. Nothing says you can't wear tailored robes."

"Oh. But what did you buy them for?" Hermione asked, smoothing the robes down with her hands and trying not to feel too self-conscious.

"That's what my mother wanted to know," Lavender said. "I just told her that there were many reasons to own a beautiful set of black robes. Like how Muggle women have a little black dress, right?" She paused to look at Hermione, who smiled and nodded. Lavender had probably learned about Muggle dresses from her mother; Dr. Marlowe-Granger was a big proponent of elegant evening dress. "I didn't elaborate on what those reasons are, though," Lavender added now, with a smirk.

"Since I'm not your mother, will you tell me?" Hermione couldn't stop looking at her reflection. It was strange, but she was slowly becoming reconciled to the fact that she looked very much like a grown woman, though she still didn't really feel like one.

"Ah, well. Robes with this sort of cut in plain black are perfect for teasing Seamus in every class we share." Lavender's eyes glinted mischievously. "I'm sure they'll work just as well on Draco." Hermione flushed and looked away, fidgeting uncomfortably. Her friend laughed. "There's no need to be shy about it, Hermione. You ought to want to be admired by your boyfriend."

"It's not Draco I'm worried about," Hermione muttered. "It's everyone else."

"They'll just think you look very nice," Lavender said, firmly. "And the photos in the Prophet will speak for themselves." She stabbed her wand at the piles of clothes on her bed, then smiled as they obediently began to pack themselves back into the wardrobe. The sight reminded Hermione of the marching brooms in The Sorcerer's Apprentice. Makeup bag in hand, Lavender turned back to her, beaming like a triumphant fairy godmother. "Now we just need a few cosmetic charms and potions. The camera can be very cruel, and we don't want that. Everyone needs to know that the Hogwarts Champion is as beautiful as she is brave and brilliant."

Hermione gave a rather hollow laugh but allowed Lavender to seat her on the edge of the now-clear bed. She knew that she wasn't beautiful, but it seemed silly – not to mention ungrateful – to say so. "Not too much, Lavender," she warned, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. "I want people to be able to recognise me." It had been humiliating to realise that even her best friends hadn't immediately known who she was at the Yule Ball – her first Yule Ball. She didn't want to make that mistake ever again.

"Oh, I'll be careful not to make it too heavy," Lavender assured her. "It's only a daytime occasion, so there's no need to go overboard." She pulled three small potion bottles out of her bag and lined them up on her bedside table. "So, a complexion smoother, something to reduce the bags under your eyes – they're barely noticeable, but the camera will find them – and a slight lip stain. That should be enough." Then she frowned at Hermione's curls. "Maybe I should rustle up something to tame your hair ever so slightly. Not too much, though; with the frizz reduced, that's a classic style."

"What, heaps of bushy curls?" Hermione asked, dryly.

"Rich, luxuriant curls," Lavender corrected her. There was an amused glint in her eyes. "Really, Hermione, must you downplay your best features? So you need a bit of work to be 'naturally beautiful'? You're not the only one." She snorted at Hermione's obvious surprise. "I guarantee you, any girl you've ever compared yourself unfavourably to – well, most of them use at least this much magic every morning. No one's effortlessly flawless."

Hermione sighed. "I know. I don't care most of the time, it's just..." She trailed off and waved her hand around in mute frustration, hoping that Lavender would understand without her having to say the words.

Her friend laughed. "It's okay, I get it," she said. "But you'd be frustrated with someone who wanted to get good marks without studying, wouldn't you? Well, of course you would. So would I. And yes, I know that it's not quite the same thing, but you don't get anything worth having without some pain." She produced a potion bottle topped by a very Muggle-looking spray applicator. "Now," she said, the finality in her voice suggesting that the subject was closed. "Let's see about these silky curls."

Hermione thought that Harry's eyes were going to fall out of his head when he saw her. "Damn," he said, in an undertone, as she took her place next to him. "Those are quite some robes."

She scowled. "Don't say another word."

He laughed quietly and completely ignored her. "Malfoy's a lucky bastard, that's all I'm saying."

"Shut up, Harry." Hermione hit him on the upper arm, hard enough to sting but not to leave a bruise. He let out a slight hiss and shot her a plaintive look of mock-betrayal. She sighed; much as she didn't want to admit it, she did feel bad. "Lavender made me wear this."

Harry paused in rubbing his arm – far too dramatically, in Hermione's opinion – to say, "Then Lavender is obviously a genius. An evil genius. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything else with both you and the lovely Zinchenko in the same room?"

"Careful," Hermione said, rolling her eyes just a little. "You're starting to sound like Etienne."

"Hey, now, there's no need for that," Harry whined, glancing over his shoulder at the French boy, who was trying to cover his nerves by flirting badly with Nadya. "Maybe I should go over and rescue her," he said, a little too casually.

"How very noble and heroic of you," Hermione said, dryly.

"I thought so." Harry smiled as if he hadn't caught her very obvious sarcasm, but his eyes glinted with subtle humour.

"Go on, then, rescue your fair maiden from the terrifying French dragon," she said, giving Harry a shove in the right direction. He glowered at her, though his cheeks were suspiciously pink. It was the first time she'd seen this Harry quite so discomposed.

A moment later he was laughing. "What, and leave you alone so he can latch on to you instead? I don't think so." He looked rather wistfully at Nadya, but then turned back to Hermione. "What sort of friend would I be if I did that?"

She shrugged. "The sort who gets distracted by a pretty woman?" She wasn't really paying all that much attention herself, as mentioning dragons had sent her thoughts in the direction of the First Task. The last time she had seen the Triwizard Tournament, she'd watched with her heart in her mouth as a younger and smaller Harry outflew a Hungarian Horntail. Would the same thing happen again? And what would she do, if she were faced with her own dragon adversary?

Before her thoughts could get too grim, they were interrupted by the arrival of the wandmaker Ollivander. He seemed very pleased to be there, and moved with the easy confidence of someone who had a very exact sense of his own importance. The Minister followed him into the room, looking bumbling and insecure by comparison, and shadowed as always by the tall and handsome Kingsley. When the Auror met Hermione's eyes, he smiled and winked at her. She smiled back, remembering their brief moment of camaraderie in the Entrance Hall, the night before Halloween.

She was not quite as pleased to recognise another face in the Minister's retinue. Rita Skeeter, the poisonous Daily Prophet journalist, followed Kingsley into the room, her face twisted into her usual expression of barely veiled cruelty. Hermione felt a rush of anger and hatred as she looked at the woman, though she knew that there was little Rita could do to hurt her this time around. Harry wasn't famous in this world, so it was unlikely that she'd want to write ridiculous stories about him and his tragic life. Stories in which she was the villain, the fickle girl whose dalliance with a visiting Quidditch star had broken the poor hero's already wounded heart.

That wasn't going to happen, not this time. And yet the mere sight of Rita Skeeter was enough to make her blood boil. She didn't understand it.

It was fortunate that at this point the Minister launched into his speech to open the Wand Weighing ceremony. He spoke at length, typically long-winded and irrelevant, but Hermione managed to tune him out. In another life, Fudge had been the catalyst for her realisation that authority figures were not automatically right, and, unfortunately for him, Hermione had neither respect for the man nor any interest in his malformed opinions. She'd always listened attentively to Professor Binns, even at his most tedious, but a pompous and triumphant Fudge was just too much for her to take.

Eventually the Minister wound down his speech and handed the proceedings over to Ollivander. The wandmaker stepped forward with a quiet dignity that showed the Minister's flaws as clearly as any of his detractors might wish. "Simply put," he began, with a slight smile and a sideways look at Fudge, "the point of today's meeting is to ensure that the competitors' wands are in good working order."

"And perhaps each of the Champions would be willing to give me an interview?" Rita Skeeter put in, smiling insincerely. "The Prophet is going to run a small feature on the Tournament, and it would be so nice if we could introduce the Champions a little more... personally." Hermione shivered involuntarily at the look in her eyes. While Rita didn't seem overly eager to talk to any particular one of them, she was clearly relishing the prestige of getting to cover the first Triwizard Tournament in over a century. Such was the interest in the competition that her article would almost certainly be widely read and discussed. Especially with exclusive personal details.

"I'm sure they'd be happy to," Fudge said, with a grin that made Hermione want to hex his face with boils.

"Excellent!" Rita set up her loathsome Quick-Quotes quill on a side table and gave some muttered instructions to her photographer. "So, if you could just come over here for a few words after your wand has been cleared, that would be wonderful." It clearly wasn't a request, and Hermione didn't see how to get out of it without revealing her hatred of the vicious journalist, something that she would find very hard to explain.

Ollivander cleared his throat, looking annoyed at the interruption. "Very well. Now, as to the wands... M. Lefèvre, shall we examine yours first?" The French boy coloured slightly as all eyes in the room fell on him, but he stepped forward as confidently as he could, holding out a wand made of a strange-looking dark wood. "Well, well." Ollivander looked curiously at the wand before taking it from the Beauxbatons Champion. "Blackthorn. Not a wood I usually work with – I prefer hawthorn – but it is a very beautiful wand. One of Charpentier's, unless I miss my guess?"

He looked at Etienne enquiringly, and the French wizard nodded, seeming slightly more at his ease now. "Oui, monsieur. Maman says they are the only wands worth buying – in France, that is." He hurriedly added the last words as if afraid that Ollivander might be offended otherwise.

"He is a craftsman of quality," the elderly wandmaker said, with what sounded like respect. "So. Blackthorn and unicorn hair. Twelve inches. Fairly pliable. A very fine wand." He waved it and produced a small hand mirror from thin air, which he offered to Rita Skeeter with a smile and a bow. The reporter accepted it, but her mouth had a sour twist to it. "Now, Miss Zinchenko?" Ollivander looked at the next Champion, leaving Etienne to deal with Skeeter as best he could. She seemed to be smiling at him, her eyes softer than Hermione remembered – but then, Etienne was handsome.

Nadya flicked her wrist and her wand dropped into it. She held it out for Ollivander to take, a slight hint of smugness in her smile. "Here, Mr. Ollivander. A Gregorovitch creation, if that interests you."

"Indeed?" Ollivander took the wand and closed his eyes, as if he was listening to the wand somehow. "Hm. Rowan. Ten and a half inches. Rather inflexible." Hermione looked at the firm, proud chin of Nadya Zinchenko and thought that, in this respect at least, she was not unlike her wand. "The core, now. That is something unusual. Not a phoenix feather. It is darker than that, heavier – sadder?" He frowned. "Dear me. Can it be? An Augurey feather core? Remarkable!"

"It is an Augurey feather, yes." Nadya looked impressed.

"Not a core I have much experience with," Ollivander confessed. "I would imagine that it can be rather temperamental, though. Am I right?"

"Ah, yes, it can be." Nadya smiled as if it was all a great joke to her. "It tends to be more powerful when it is raining or just about to rain. So, as you might guess, it has performed very well in this country so far."

Hermione snorted, only managing not to laugh out loud with great difficulty. Next to her, Harry was biting his lip, but Ollivander only arched an eyebrow. He waved the wand, saying, "Iris!" A shimmering rainbow emerged from the end of the wand, arcing across the room to illuminate the back of Etienne's head. "Very good, Miss Zinchenko, that will do."

"Thank you." Nadya took her wand, and it vanished back up her sleeve without a word or visible gesture. She gave Ollivander a tight smile and shot a brief look over her shoulder at Harry and Hermione before heading over to Rita Skeeter with an air of great reluctance. This was more or less exactly how Hermione felt about the journalist, and so she found herself warming to the Durmstrang Champion. Though, as she glanced sideways at Harry, she thought with some amusement that he had probably been quite warm towards Nadya already.

"Now then. Miss Granger?" Hermione reached out and squeezed Harry's forearm in a comforting gesture before walking over towards Ollivander, pulling out her wand as she went. She handed it across, her hands suddenly shaking with nerves as she realised that this was real. She really was the Hogwarts Champion. Ollivander seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil, merely taking the wand and examining it with interest. "Ah, yes. I remember every wand I have ever sold, and this was a very special one. I do not ordinarily work with vine wood, but this one was... an inspired work."

He opened his mouth to continue but was interrupted by Nadya's sharp rebuke to Rita Skeeter. "Tell your stupid quill that I am not Russian; I am from Ukraine. It is a different country, though perhaps you English would not know that." Her voice was not particularly loud, but it held a sharp, cold clarity that made it carry across the room. Hermione understood why she was annoyed, of course; Russia still seemed to believe that the former Soviet states belonged to it – or at least that they should – so a Ukrainian could hardly be expected to look kindly on such a mistake. But then, no one had ever accused Rita Skeeter of checking her facts before writing an article. Or of being sensitive.

Ollivander cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened. "Yes, an inspired work. Vine wood and dragon heartstring, ten inches. A very well-balanced wand. I hope that you have been taking good care of it?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, with a small smile. Anyone who knew her at all could have vouched for the fact that she always followed the recommended care instructions for everything she owned, and encouraged others to do the same. This had varying results – though she still maintained that it had been unfair of Seamus to give her such a hard time for asking him and Draco how often they polished their brooms. "I checked it over last night."

"Hm, very good." Ollivander flicked his wrist, showering red glitter all over the table. "Definitely in good working order. Thank you, Miss Granger." He nodded politely to her and turned towards the last remaining Champion, leaving her with no choice but to approach Rita Skeeter. Nadya Zinchenko had stalked away from the aggravating woman, and was now leaning against the far wall with her arms folded and her face set in a fearsome scowl. There was no excuse Hermione could use to postpone the meeting, much as she wished that she could. She sighed heavily and accepted her fate.

"Now, then." Skeeter put a new piece of parchment under her acid green Quick Quotes quill. "Hermione Granger, the Hogwarts Champion." They both looked at the quill, which wrote: Miss Granger, 17, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl, sits before our reporter, awaiting her questions with poise and composure. Hermione blinked. That wasn't rude or insulting at all! Was there something wrong with the quill? And really – she knew that she looked nice, but "stunningly pretty"? That was taking it a bit too far. "Do tell me, Miss Granger, what motivated you to enter the Tournament?"

If this was the sort of question Skeeter intended to ask, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "I didn't expect to be chosen," Hermione said, with a light laugh that she hoped didn't sound hysterical. "My friends kept urging me to put my name in, and even my mentor Professor Snape seemed to think it was a good idea. So I thought that it couldn't hurt to try – but I never really expected that I would be the Champion."

"It must have been very thrilling," Skeeter said, sounding insincere and rather bored. "How did you feel when Mr. Potter was also chosen as a Champion?"

Hermione hesitated. The quill wrote: Miss Granger is silent for a moment, perhaps reflecting on her resentment at being overshadowed by her underage classmate. She chose to ignore this, and said, "I was surprised, of course. Very surprised. I wasn't sure what was going on at the time, but now I think that someone must have tampered with the Goblet of Fire. And I don't think it was Harry. He was as shocked as the rest of us when his name was drawn out."

"Ah, Harry, is it?" Rita Skeeter smiled unpleasantly. "Does this mean that there is some truth to the rumours that you and he had a secret relationship?"

Hermione stiffened in indignation at the question – but really, hadn't she suspected that something of this kind would be forthcoming? That was just the sort of person Rita Skeeter was. "He and I are friends," she said, stressing the word deliberately. "We're good friends, and I'm very fond of him, but there's never been anything more than that between us." She shrugged and looked directly at Skeeter. "You know, I wouldn't have imagined that your readers would be particularly interested in the relationship between two schoolchildren anyway." She'd understood the interest in her own world, where Harry was ridiculously famous, but it didn't make an awful lot of sense to her here.

The reporter made a grating attempt at a carefree chuckle. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Miss Granger," she said. Her eyes were much colder than her voice, which was laden with false sweetness. "Our readers love romance. Especially a secret romance. Star-crossed lovers kept apart by their scheming friends, or by the feuding of their two Houses. You know how the story goes."

Since Hermione had in fact read Romeo and Juliet once – Shakespeare being one of the few exceptions she'd allowed to slip past her distaste for works of fiction – she did know exactly what Skeeter meant. "How very charming," she said, as warmly as she could, while thinking that it was all rather nauseating. "I am sorry that your readers won't get the entertainment of such a classic tale." She smiled – or, at least, she tried to.

"I suppose that the truth is quite frequently not as exciting as we might like it to be." There was no attempt on Skeeter's part to hide her disappointment at this. In fact, she almost seemed annoyed, as if she blamed Hermione for not having a newsworthy romantic life. Obviously she was just as rude and hateful a person in this world as in the other. "Ah, and I believe Mr. Potter has finished his Wand Weighing. I'm sure that you will excuse me...?"

She turned away to welcome Harry without waiting for a reply, but Hermione still muttered, "Gladly," and went over to join Nadya in leaning against the wall.

The Ukrainian witch patted her gently on the arm. "Your reporter, she is quite a woman."

"I wish I could say that the rest of our Press was nothing like her," Hermione said, with a sigh. "But I'm afraid that would be a lie." She tugged on the end of one of her own curls in remembered agitation. "Apparently the Great British Public are very interested in such riveting issues as whether or not I am carrying on a secret love affair with Harry."

"And you are not?" Nadya's question was almost perfectly casual and disinterested, but there was a very slight tremor in her voice that betrayed her true feelings.

"No, not at all," Hermione replied, far more warmly than she had to any of Skeeter's questions. Nadya seemed nice enough, and it was hard to resent her curiosity when she had a very good idea of the other girl's reasons for wanting to know. "I have a very not-secret boyfriend who would be upset if I were also going out with Harry." It was supposed to be a joke, but she remembered Draco's real jealousy and didn't feel like laughing. She hated rumours and gossip.

There was no way for Nadya to know what she was thinking, so she only said, "Well, that is nice for you." There was a faint smile on her face as her eyes came to rest on Harry.

"It is," Hermione agreed, but her mind was not really on Nadya – or even on Draco – but on Harry and her own lack of attention. She'd let herself be distracted by Rita Skeeter, despite her resolutions to the contrary, and now she had absolutely no idea what Harry's wand core might be. The question of the phoenix feathers – of whether his wand was the brother to Voldemort's – would have to remain unanswered for now.